Murder on the Rocks Read online

  MURDER ON THE ROCKS

  A Jordan Jenner Mystery

  J.S. Strange

  First Published in Great Britain in 2019.

  Panther Publishing is a Welsh publishing company.

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 with Panther Publishing.

  Copyright © J.S. Strange 2019.

  J.S. Strange has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing from the author, nor be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Front cover copyright to Rhianedd Sion and J.S. Strange. Photographs used on the front cover belong to Rhianedd Sion and J.S. Strange.

  Previously published by J.S. Strange

  Winter Smith: London’s Burning

  Winter Smith: The Secrets of France

  Family.

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Twenty Seven

  Twenty Eight

  Twenty Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty One

  Thirty Two

  Thirty Three

  Thirty Four

  Thirty Five

  Thirty Six

  Thirty Seven

  Twenty Eight

  Thirty Nine

  Forty

  Forty One

  Forty Two

  Forty Three

  Forty Four

  Forty Five

  Forty Six

  Forty Seven

  Forty Eight

  Forty Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty One

  Fifty Two

  Fifty Three

  Fifty Four

  Fifty Five

  Fifty Six

  Fifty Seven

  Fifty Eight

  Fifty Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty One

  Sixty Two

  Sixty Three

  Sixty Four

  One

  The tumbler glass of whisky stood alone on the oak table. Patterns of fingerprints crisscrossed the glass where it had been clutched two hours previously.

  The dregs still remained of what appeared to be whisky. Lip prints, most likely the victim’s, were visible at the rim of the glass.

  “I suspect he was poisoned,” an unfamiliar officer said. “Almost instantly. He would have drunk the whisky and he collapsed.”

  Horrible way to go, Jordan thought to himself. He looked at the chair that was jutting out from the table, the imprint of bum cheeks still in the padded leather cushion. The body had been moved, but not before Jordan had seen him.

  His eyes had been bulging, wide open and staring at something. His mouth hung agape, white spit dribbling down his chin and wetting his cheeks. His skin had turned a blotchy purple. The man had been unable to breathe.

  “And do we know who was in attendance tonight?” Jordan asked.

  The officer looked at a notepad that he held in his hand. “Most people arrived, although I was told two regulars didn’t attend this week.”

  “Names of the regulars?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Jordan glared at the officer he had never met. “I would like names. Is there anybody I can speak to? Any witnesses?”

  “With all due respect, Mr…”

  “Mr Jenner,” Jordan said. “But just call me Jordan.”

  “Mr Jenner, with all due respect, this isn’t your case.”

  “Actually, Mark, I called him here.” DCI Vanessa Carter walked into the room wearing a police uniform. The woman was imposing, taller than average, and slim. Her blonde hair was tied up, and she looked like she hadn’t slept for a good few days.

  The officer known as Mark blushed. Now that his boss was in the room, his manner of authority deflated, a pin taken to a balloon. “You did?”

  “This is Jordan Jenner.” Vanessa placed her hand on Jordan’s shoulder. “He has just returned from compassionate leave and is one of the best freelance private investigators I know.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mark.” Jordan smiled.

  “Very well, but I still don’t see…” Mark began.

  “He’s part of this case.” Vanessa’s tone was final.

  Mark seemed to get redder. He avoided eye contact and made a quick excuse to leave. Jordan and Vanessa watched him go.

  “Sorry about him.” Vanessa rolled her eyes. “He’s new.”

  “Figured.” Jordan looked at the table, at the tumbler glass, which hadn’t been moved. “Have forensics been?”

  “Not yet. We’re short staffed tonight. Coming up to the new year, everyone wants it off.”

  “Quite selfish that this man should drop dead on us at such an inconvenient time, isn’t it?”

  Vanessa smirked. “I was thinking the same thing. Murder doesn’t celebrate New Year’s, unfortunately. It’s work as usual for us.”

  Jordan reached into his back pocket and took out a notepad, but he realised too late that he didn’t have a pen. Sensing this, Vanessa took a biro out from her jacket pocket and handed it to him.

  Jordan nodded his appreciation. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “He was poisoned.” Vanessa began to walk slowly around the table. “The writing group meets at this house every month. This was their last session.”

  “This is a writers’ group?”

  “It is indeed.” Vanessa stopped directly opposite the whisky glass. “Ten people attend every month, although this month they were two down.”

  “Yes, Mark did tell me.”

  Vanessa eyed the door where Mark disappeared. “Well, at least he can do something right.”

  “And who does this house belong to?”

  “Joseph Gordon,” Vanessa replied.

  Jordan snapped to attention. “The bestselling author?”

  “The same one.”

  “What’s he doing with a writers’ group? Surely he doesn’t need the support…”

  Vanessa shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Set the group up just over a year ago and has been going ever since. He only lets in the select few. It’s very prestigious, by all means.”

  With pen poised to write notes, Jordan looked at Vanessa. “You’ve dealt with this group before.”

  It was a statement, not a question.

  “Once, yes,” Vanessa replied. “We were called because of a disturbance. Apparently, some members argued five months ago. It was quite a big argument by the sound of things. Two women, one man. When we arrived, there were a few smashed glasses, but the main culprits had left. We didn’t follow it up. We didn’t need to. Seemed like a drunken argument.”

  Jordan wrote all of this down. “Why didn’t you follow it u
p?”

  “Please, if we followed up all drunken arguments we’d have no time for anything else.”

  Jordan agreed. “Where is Joseph Gordon?”

  “At the station, in for questioning.”

  “Questioning? You don’t think…”

  “Everybody is a suspect until proven innocent Jord. You know that.” Vanessa indicated the tumbler. “That glass, that whisky, came from this house. They both belonged to Joseph Gordon. It’s very possible that the poison that laced that glass also belongs to him. Famous or not, he could be a killer.”

  Jordan scratched down more notes, flipped the page, and wrote a short sentence.

  “Are there any witnesses here I can speak to?”

  “Not right now.”

  Jordan looked around. An antique bookcase stood at one end of the room, housing volumes that were considered to be literature greats and drivel. He glanced over at the mantelpiece where there were no photographs of family members but instead of two golden retrievers. The curtains were drawn over a bay-seat windowsill, and the only light came from a tripod lamp nearby. The room had a faint smell of cigar smoke, of spirits and alcohol, and the faint waft of food, something with garlic. Jordan remembered that he hadn’t eaten all day.

  “Were they due to eat?”

  “The food was halfway done when the murder happened,” Vanessa replied. “The stoves are off now, if you’re worried about a house fire.”

  Jordan allowed himself a smile, but it was humourless. It seemed to be his default mood these days. An empty fruit bowl sat in the middle of the table, notebooks next to it.

  “Is that their notes?”

  “We’re assuming so, though we’re waiting for forensics to come before we touch anything.”

  Jordan sighed. “How long will it take for forensics to arrive?”

  “They’re coming from Port Talbot.”

  Jordan nodded. They were probably about forty-five minutes away from where the crime scene was in Cardiff, yet with people travelling home for the new year, Jordan expected them to be late.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Jordan was startled by the question. He wondered why Vanessa’s tone had changed from brisk and professional to caring and friendly.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Jordan, it’s too early for you to be back at work.”

  “You called me.”

  “Yeah, only because I was told you had to be involved because you had let the team know you were fit to come back to work.”

  “I needed the money.”

  “You were on compassionate leave.”

  Jordan slipped his notepad back into his back pocket and handed the pen to Vanessa over the table. “Honestly, I’m fine.”

  “It’s only been…”

  “Vanessa.”

  Vanessa quit asking.

  Mark came back into the room. He appeared a bit more composed, but still avoided Jordan’s eye.

  “The pathologist is here to take James Fairview’s body to the morgue. Did you want me to tell them anything before they go?”

  Vanessa walked around the table again and came to stand next to Jordan. “I just want them to do an autopsy. Find out what poison was used and how much. If we can find the name of the poison, then we can know what we’re looking for. It’s somewhere to start.”

  Vanessa had been in the police force for ten years, but had only taken up her role of crime investigator for two of those. Jordan had worked with her since going freelance three years ago and always trusted her instincts.

  “By the way, did you manage to find out the name of those in attendance?” Jordan asked Mark.

  Mark turned to Vanessa for guidance.

  “I’ve got them. Come with me back to the van and we can go over them.”

  Mark, relieved, quickly excused himself, and Vanessa failed to hide a wry smile.

  “What are you smirking at this time?” Jordan asked her.

  “Nothing.” Vanessa said. “It’s just good to have you back.”

  Two

  Jordan found himself sat in the passenger side of the unmarked police van that Vanessa used. The inside smelt like bubble gum. He realised the aroma came from an air freshener on the rear-view mirror. He wrinkled his nose: blueberry wasn’t the nicest.

  A police radio had been installed beneath the car radio, and an operator paged through to another officer. Stored away beneath the dashboard were police files. Strictly, Vanessa shouldn’t have left these lying around, but Jordan wouldn’t care to tell.

  It felt odd to be sat here, back at the scene of a crime. He had taken only three months off, after saying he would be taking half a year, but he had needed to get back out there.

  Yet being surrounded by murder was not the most ideal situation to be in. He didn’t know what it was, but the murder of James Fairview had unnerved him. Before his leave, he had developed a skin of iron, becoming desensitised to the stabbings, rapes, and murders he had needed to investigate.

  He put it down to being off for three months and being preoccupied.

  “I know I’ve got the names in here somewhere,” Vanessa riffled through a case note of files. “Come on, where are they?”

  Jordan stared out of the windscreen at the streets of Cardiff. The residential homes looked innocent here. They were misleading in size, reminding him of terraced houses in the South Wales valleys: outdated and old and dilapidating. But Jordan was familiar with the area of Roath, and knew it was wealthy. Just around the corner of this street was a barrier where a fob key and a key pass were installed to keep the riff-raff out. The houses were three stories high, with high-ceilinged rooms and thick walls blocking out the sounds of your neighbours.

  It was the perfect place to commit a murder.

  “Ah, yes, here we go.”

  Vanessa withdrew a sheet of paper and handed it to Jordan. There was a list of bold underlined names matched with photographs.

  He spotted James Fairview beneath Joseph Gordon. Beneath James was an older woman known as Margaret. Then there was Graham Neat, who had receding hair, and Franchesca Vittori, who had heavily eye-shadowed eyes in the photograph. He spotted a groomed-looking Sally Waters, and a chubby woman named Sarah Dixon. Finally, there was a middle-aged woman called Kim Bennedict, and then there was Andy Morgan.

  Jordan lingered on Andy Morgan’s photograph. He wore glasses; his hair was white, yet he looked mid-forties. He realised he recognised him.

  “Andy Morgan,” Jordan said. His training had given him the ability to remember faces and place them, though he was sometimes slower than he liked to admit.

  “Do you know him?”

  Jordan lifted his head and tilted it from side to side. “Not really. I met him once when a student turned up dead at Cardiff Metropolitan University. He’d been a personal tutor, so I wanted to find out what the student was like in class, whether or not depression had anything to do with it.”

  “And what was he like?”

  Jordan looked straight ahead. “An odd man. Kept changing the subject, laughing about the weather, the news, anything that seemed to pop into his head. He just seemed a little bit disjointed.”

  “I suppose you would be if your student had died.”

  “He just seemed like a weird man.”

  “What does he teach?”

  “English.”

  “Makes sense, I suppose.” Vanessa looked at the home of Joseph Gordon. “No wonder he’s in the writing group. A lecturer and writer. I guess that’s pretty serious.”

  “To someone like Joseph, yeah.”

  Jordan began to write down the names. Once he had finished, he handed the paper back to Vanessa.

  “Thank you.”

  “Who wasn’t there tonight?”

  “Sally Waters and Margaret Duncible.”

  Jordan marked their names on the notepad. “Can you get me their contact details?”

  Vanessa eyed Jordan. “Yes, I suppose I can.”

  “Thank you.”
r />   From the end of the street came a dark blue van. It drove slowly, and the driver eyed each house on either side of him. Eventually, he appeared to spot Vanessa’s van, and came to a stop next to her.

  Vanessa wound down the window. “Hiya, George. Yeah, that’s the house.”

  The man in the van drove into a nearby parking space.

  Vanessa closed the window. “That’s forensics.”

  Jordan peered around Vanessa as George went into the boot of his van. “He’s wearing a Christmas jumper.”

  “Well, it is Christmas Eve in two days.”

  Jordan rolled his eyes. “Just get on with it. I want information.”

  “Do you want to wait for me here? I thought we could go and get a drink together?”

  Jordan looked at his notes, knowing he had work to do. His house was messy, and he had meant to clean it after work today. Yet responsibilities right now were not calling loud enough.

  “Fine, you twisted my arm.”

  Vanessa exited the van with a smile and disappeared back into the house of Joseph Gordon, the famous author. Jordan remembered reading three of his books when he was a little younger. Now, at twenty-eight, he felt like the old him had died a long time ago.

  He had seen some shit. Children slain, women beaten, and men decapitated. The hidden crime in the Welsh capital was shocking and successfully covered up. Most cases seemed to be drug related, murders out of anger because the dealer hadn’t been paid, yet there were the more sinister stories, the ones not even the press would touch.

  Looking at the house now, he wondered how long it would take for the press to discover what had happened. A man murdered by poison at a successful horror writer’s house was a gold mine. It was like Joseph Gordon was now living one of his own novels, just a lot more mysterious.

  Someone had killed James skilfully, and they had known him. He had drunk from the glass of whisky without a second thought. He had known his killer.

  Jordan eyed the list of names, thinking, wondering who could be responsible. Was it somebody in the writers’ group? Or had there been other guests in attendance tonight?